


Scoop

by Eledhwen



Series: Whose secret is it anyway? [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Giving some love to the supporting characters, Identity Reveal, Journalism, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 09:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/pseuds/Eledhwen
Summary: At the core of every good editor is a nose for a story, and Ellison’s nose had never gone away. And if there was one thing he was currently sure about, it was that there was the mother of all scoops waiting to happen in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.





	Scoop

**Author's Note:**

> So I did an identity reveal for Marci, and then my Daredevil-obsessed muse jumped up and down going "but who else would need or want to find out who Daredevil really is?" 
> 
> Ellison is too good a journalist not to want to track down the story. I'm a journalist myself, and if someone says 'no comment' or refuses to talk it's always because there's a story there. Karen's denial of Daredevil would have been a red flag to a bull. I don't recall Ellison and Matt ever meeting on screen.

It had been a few years since Mitch Ellison had been a reporter. He’d chosen to accept the promotions – news editor, Metro editor, deputy editor, editor – while others, like Ben Urich, stuck to their guns and kept on writing.

But at the core of every good editor is a nose for a story, and Ellison’s nose had never gone away. And if there was one thing he was currently sure about, it was that there was the mother of all scoops waiting to happen in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. Fisk was in prison, again, and the man who had carried out the _Bulletin_ attack was identified and would never hurt anyone again. But the original Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was still out there.

Ellison remembered Karen Page’s white face as she told him she couldn’t tell him who the Devil was. Her eyes had been red-rimmed with fear and with crying, but her voice was resolved. Ellison had been on the receiving end of a lot of people saying “no comment” to things over the years; usually, it meant they wouldn’t talk, rather than they couldn’t.

So he started with Karen.

Ben had left a meticulous, comprehensive file of clippings on his protégée and Ellison had once told Karen he hadn’t read it. At the time, it was true, but now he opened the file and began to read – and it was a hell of a story, on its own. Mother dying of cancer, girl going off the rails, kid brother killed in a car accident. Then the Union Allied affair, and Karen’s lucky break when the lawyers Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock stepped in to save her bacon. After that, the clippings were more about Nelson & Murdock than about Page, and then they ended.

Ellison switched to the internet, re-reading the _Bulletin_ ’s own stories on Fisk, and Frank Castle, but also finding numerous other little pieces filed about small victories on behalf of the ordinary folk of the Kitchen by Nelson & Murdock.

After Castle, those stories petered out. Ellison did more digging, and found that while Nelson had taken a high-powered, well-paid job at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz, Murdock had continued acting as a defence attorney. He’d won a few decent cases, and then there was nothing for months.

Ellison clicked on, finding a fresh, modern new website advertising the services of Nelson, Murdock & Page: “Attorneys at Law and Private Investigation Services”. He found himself impressed. It was a good use of Karen’s undoubted research skills and ability to keep on at a story until it gave way.

He paused his research to pour himself some more whiskey and wonder where to go next. While he now had a good picture of Karen and her life, and her friends, he still had no idea where Daredevil came in.

He went back, and re-read Karen’s first column for the _Bulletin_. For someone with no training it was a pretty good piece, written from the heart, and he remembered doing relatively little editing to it. Then he found the follow-up to that column, which they’d headlined ‘Twice Saved’ and read that. Neither piece gave much indication that Karen knew the identity of Daredevil at that point, but Ellison was still sure that by the time the guy in the costume attacked the _Bulletin_ , she had done.

Ellison leaned back in his chair, and thought, and then went back to the archive to find the box labelled ‘Ben Urich’.

Ben, it turned out, had not only done his research on Karen but had also done his research on Daredevil. He’d pulled together a timeline from the first time the man in the mask had been reported as saving someone’s life, and then collated clippings of all the times they’d bothered writing a story about it. Clipped to the pieces of newspaper were two pages of notes from Urich’s own encounters with the Devil.

Ellison copied down the salient points.

Average height. Caucasian, probably. Slender, well-muscled. Moved fast, moved silently. Had detailed knowledge of Wilson Fisk’s operations, able to negotiate by giving information in return for information. Kept to the shadows, face obscured by a black mask.

Staring at the notes, Ellison rubbed his eyes in frustration, and went back to his computer.

It turned out there were whole pages of forums devoted to discussing Daredevil, but once Ellison had filtered out the discussions devoted to admiring the man’s abs and ass, there was little that was relevant.

He moved on. The number of clips of Daredevil on YouTube were staggering, especially given the lack of information about the man’s identity, but the more Ellison watched, the more he noted one thing. Daredevil stuck to Hell’s Kitchen and the outer edges of the districts around it. He’d been spotted once or twice in Midtown, and down to the Garment District, but 99 per cent of the clips were from the Kitchen.

Ellison tore a fresh sheet of paper from his notebook, and wrote ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ in the middle of it. Then he wrote ‘Karen Page’ to one side, and ‘Wilson Fisk’ on the other; added ‘drugs’ because Urich had noted that the Devil had asked him about heroin one time. He thought for a second, and added ‘Nelson & Murdock’ next to Karen’s name, drawing a line between the two.

He turned back to the clips, and watched a few more. The quality in most was bad, but good enough to get a sense of the man’s fighting style – not that Ellison was an expert on martial arts.

Ellison was not the editor of one of New York’s biggest-selling newspapers for nothing. He made some calls, pulled in a favour, and before he left the office had emailed a few of the best Daredevil clips to a stuntman who was the friend of a friend with a request for information on the styles the man in the mask was employing.

His email buzzed during the news meeting the next morning, and he wasted no time in opening the message once he was out.

“Interesting stuff,” read the message. “I’d never really looked at Daredevil before, but he’s very much in the MMA school.”

Ellison paused, and searched for ‘MMA’. Mixed martial arts. Right. He went back to the email.

“There’s a lot of traditional boxing in there,” said the message, “but also Muay Thai, Silat, Kali, a bit of karate. The interesting thing is how he mixes it up and doesn’t play by any single rule. He’s tough, too.

“If you happen to track him down, I’d love to meet!”

Ellison fired off a quick thank you as a reply, and reached for the phone directory.

The internet was all very well, but sometimes there was no match for a bit of good old door-stopping. He told his deputy he was out for the afternoon, and took a list he’d compiled of martial arts centres, gyms and boxing clubs in the Kitchen with him.

He’d been around more than a dozen by mid-afternoon and his feet were starting to hurt. It had really been too long since he got out on the streets, but there was one more boxing club to try and then, Ellison promised himself, he’d stop for a coffee and a snack.

“You’re asking if I think Daredevil trains here?” the owner said, laughing. “Yeah right, man. I reckon we’d have noticed.”

“Not if he came in normal clothes,” Ellison said, repeating the argument he’d tried all day. “He’d be private. But he’s done a lot of boxing.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” the man said, squinting at Ellison’s phone. “Some proper old-school uppercuts in there. Would love to get in the ring with the guy, but he ain’t come here.”

Ellison put his phone away, and sighed. “Okay, thanks man.”

“Tell you who you need to try,” the man added. “He’s retired, now, and his place is shut up, but old Johnny Fogwell used to know every boxer in the Kitchen.”

“Got his details?” Ellison asked. It was worth a shot.

It turned out that Fogwell’s Gym was just around the corner, so shut up or not, Ellison took a look before grabbing a coffee. When he got there the door was locked, but there was a hole in the glass pane of the door and he squinted through into a dim, musty-smelling room. The ring was still there, and there were still punching bags hanging from the ceiling, and posters on the wall, but none which Ellison could get a proper look at.

He gave up, and went to get coffee and to call old Johnny Fogwell.

Fogwell said he had nothing to do that evening, and he’d be glad if Ellison called around. He lived in Hell’s Kitchen still, in one of the few remaining old tenements, and his apartment was a shrine to boxing, with the walls bedecked with pictures and posters. A pair of old leather gloves were given pride of place on a shelf.

“Quite a collection,” Ellison said, as Fogwell ushered him in and poured him a whiskey.

“Gave my life to boxing,” Fogwell agreed, taking a seat and eyeing Ellison.

“I don’t know much about it,” confessed Ellison. “But I’ve met some decent folk today, who sent me to you. I’m trying to find the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and I’m told he knows something about the ring.”

He brought up the best of the YouTube clips and handed his phone to Fogwell, who watched it, three times.

“Yeah, he knows a bit,” Fogwell said, eventually, passing the phone back. “Gone and mixed it with a bunch of fancy schmancy kung fu stuff, but yeah, he’s got boxing at heart.”

“He’s from Hell’s Kitchen,” Ellison said. “Or at least I think he is.”

“Son, I retired ten years ago,” Fogwell said. “My place shut up last year. I’m not up to date with the latest guys in the ring. Not sure I can be of much help.”

Ellison pocketed his phone, and finished his whiskey, his heart sinking a little. “Thank you for your time, Mr Fogwell. Can I use your bathroom before I go?”

“Sure. Down the hall.”

Ellison headed down the hall, and pushed open a door, expecting a bathroom but finding Fogwell’s bedroom instead. He was about to turn around and go out when his eye was caught by a faded, framed poster on the wall, and he opened the door more fully and went in to look at it.

“The Fight of the Year,” he read. “Carl Crusher Creel vs Battlin’ Jack Murdock.”

Taking off his glasses, Ellison rubbed his eyes, then put his glasses back on, and read the poster again, his brain going into overdrive.

He went to the bathroom in a daze, and came back to the living room.

“Mr Fogwell, can you tell me about Jack Murdock?” he asked, and the old man shrugged.

“Battlin’ Jack? Ain’t not been many like Battlin’ Jack,” he said. “Guy lost more than he won, but he wouldn’t stay down. You wanted a man to go the whole 12 rounds, you hired Jack Murdock. Terrible thing, way it ended. Beat Carl Creel, but got hit by the Mob the same night.”

“Did he have any children?” Ellison asked, still in a daze.

Fogwell nodded. “Just the one. Nice kid. Smart. Got blinded in some accident, before Jack was shot. Used to let him visit the gym, before it closed. He said it brought back good memories – two of them practically lived there.”

“Could he box?” Ellison asked. “Did he go there to box?”

“Nah,” Fogwell said, shattering Ellison’s wild thoughts. “Jack didn’t want his kid to grow up same as him. Wanted him to do something useful. He’s an attorney, now. Doing good for himself. Nice to see.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for your time,” Ellison said. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr Fogwell, thank you.”

“Let me know if you find him,” said Fogwell, standing stiffly to see Ellison out. “Would like to thank the guy. This place is sure as hell safer with him around.”

They shook hands and Ellison left, his mind still in turmoil. For a crazy moment he had been convinced that Matthew Murdock was his man, despite his blindness, before Fogwell had shattered those hopes. If Jack Murdock had not taught his son to box before he was blinded, there was no way that the adult man could have developed the skills that Daredevil displayed.

Ellison was so lost in his thoughts that he had not realised that he was a block past his subway station until he walked into a lamppost while scanning his emails.

“Damm!” he said, aloud, and turned around to retrace his footsteps. Still dazed from the impact, he suddenly found himself grasped by the arm and bodily hauled into an alleyway.

“Don’t shout,” said a low, gravelly voice, and Ellison looked around to find the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Daredevil himself, five paces away and very, very real. “Mitch Ellison of the _Bulletin_ , right?” Daredevil said, still in that low voice.

“Yeah.” Ellison cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“You’ve been looking for me,” the Devil said, his stance still one of fight more than flight.

“Yes I have,” Ellison confirmed.

“Stop,” said Daredevil, and there was a warning in his voice. “Just let me get on with what I do.”

Ellison examined the other man. There was the black outfit, the black mask, some sort of bindings around his hands. He was a little shorter than Ellison himself, but younger, and much, much fitter.

“I can’t,” he said, honestly. “Some of my guys died, because someone dressed like you broke into our office. I have a duty to them to uncover the truth.”

“Their deaths are on my conscience every day,” Daredevil said, and there was something in his tone which made Ellison believe him. “But what I do now, I can’t do if you continue. You put those I care about at risk.”

“For Christ’s sake,” said Ellison, taking a step towards the man in black, “what about those _I_ cared about? What about those I still care about?”

Daredevil tilted his head, a subtle movement, and his lips turned up at the edges in what was not quite a smile.

“What if some of those people are the same people?” he asked.

Ellison did not know what to say to that.

The other man paused, and then said, “maybe we can work together. I hear a lot of gossip on the streets, when people don’t think they’re being overheard. I’d be happy to share some of that, in return for my continued anonymity in your paper, Mr Ellison.”

“Go on,” Ellison said, cautious.

“You might want to look into the dealings of the guy who’s running for Senate for the Republicans, for instance,” Daredevil said. “I hear he’s paying off the woman who gave him his first child, for fear she’ll talk. She may not be in this country legally.”

Ellison got out his notebook, and made a note. “I need sources,” he said.

“Just dig,” Daredevil said. “You’re good at that.”

“Yeah, not so much,” Ellison said, “or not as good at it as you are of hiding. Got nothing today.”

“You went to see Johnny Fogwell,” the Devil said, and there was a lightening in his tone. “Did he not give you any clues?”

Ellison felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

“Because you care about Karen Page,” said the Devil, “and because I think Fogwell did give you a clue, I’m trusting you. But I warn you, if this gets into the papers …”

He reached up, and took off the mask, and Ellison found himself staring at the face of Matthew Murdock, Karen’s friend and business partner. His eyes, dark in the alleyway, did not quite meet Ellison’s own; there was a bruise on his left cheekbone and he needed a shave, but it was indubitably the same face that Ellison had been looking at the previous night on the Nelson, Murdock & Page website.

“Fuck,” Ellison said, and Murdock laughed softly.

“Fogwell did give you some clues,” he said. “But let me guess, you decided a blind man couldn’t fight?”

“Fogwell told me your dad hadn’t taught you to box,” Ellison returned. “And … yeah. So that’s why Karen wouldn’t tell me who Daredevil was.”

A fleeting expression of tenderness, sadness and something else crossed Murdock’s face, and he put the mask back on. For the first time Ellison realised that it had no eye-holes, and he wondered how he – and the rest of the world – had been so, well, blind.

“Okay,” he said. “For Karen, I’ll keep the bargain. If this story checks out, bring me more. Your secret’s safe.”

Daredevil grinned, a brief, sharp smile, and then with barely a sound turned and used the dumpsters in the alley to leap up on to the roof above them.

The following week, the _Bulletin_ published an exclusive laying bare the sordid personal history of the Republican Senate candidate, and the week after that, the candidate withdrew from the race. Ellison deleted his search history, and locked Ben Urich’s files back into the archive.

Some stories were better left untold.


End file.
